The Gift
by UselessWreckage
Summary: Gwen has a lavish gift for Merlin that leaves him gobsmacked. She has completely misunderstood. But there's more to the gift than its physical form, and perhaps the problem is that she understands too well. Merthur. Arwen. I can't write summaries to save my life.


"I have something for you," said Gwen casually. Merlin was intrigued. Her tone gave little away, it was genial and pleasant as she always was, but too light. He'd known her for long enough to see that something bigger than implied hid under her subservient smile - she wasn't even looking at him, which strengthened his suspicions that there was something she was holding back. He nodded minutely to indicate that the message was received, and was preoccupied with wondering what it was she had procured. His distraction was nothing new. It earned him a cuff on the back of the head and one of those exasperated and secretly fond eye rolls from Arthur, but those were anything but unusual.

He found Gwen in her house. He knocked the door, but didn't wait for an answer before entering. They were old friends; she was hardly going to care. From where she was seated at her work table, eating some dark cherries presumably given to her by Lady Morgana, she looked up at the noise. She smiled to see him. It was by no means the most heartfelt smile he'd received from her - it seemed tired, strained.

"There you are! I'm glad you came."

She got up, and started fussing about the room, clearing space between her fabrics and yarns and needle cases. As she scurried off to the chest where she kept commissions yet to be picked up, he drew his breath to ask her what this was all about, but she spoke before he could.

"I've made you something. Take off your tunic and close your eyes."

That only cleared up very little - as a seamstress, some sort of garment was the logical type of gift for her to give, but he still wasn't sure what it was - a shirt of some kind, presumably. He followed her instruction. There was something in her voice which did not invite questions. She had natural authority, he had to admit, and when the day came, and Arthur could finally marry her - the thought shouldn't make Merlin uneasy, he should be happy for his friends and not, well, _jealous_ - she would make a great queen.

The garment she pulled over his head was heavy, larger than a normal shirt, and felt like it was made of a luxurious fabric. She fussed around him, straightening it, and humming contemplatively. Then, her presence disappeared as she took a step back to look. Merlin braved to open his eyes.

"Hm, yes, it needs a few adjustments," Gwen said, scrutinising him.

"What on Earth - ?"

He was wearing a long, flowing, beautiful dress. The colour was a rich purple, and the bodice was adorned with dark lace. The fabric could not have come cheap, and he fretted to think of how what losses Gwen would suffer from having ruined it so - she did work two jobs, industrious as she was, but he would still be unsurprised if it devoured a great chunk of her profits. Not to mention the time she must have spent on it. The fit was excellent considering she'd never taken his measurements; there was no doubt she had an extraordinary eye. It was a remarkable and lavish gift, and so painfully misguided. He'd let her believe what she wanted to believe, when she had caught him with Morgana's things, her dresses, her jewels… Protecting his secret and saving the day had always taken priority over safeguarding his own reputation, besides, it had amused him to let her have the impression that he fancied himself in ladies' clothes. If he had known she would go out of her way like this, he would have made more of an effort to correct her.

"Gwen, I, " he began, swallowing hard, a discomfort and a glum embarrassment chilling his throat, but she held a hand up to stop him. She closed in on him again, and adjusted the bits of the dress that were not to her liking; the way it hung around his shoulders, the exact measurement of his waist. It was slightly awkward now, to have her so closed, he felt exposed but at the same time he felt like he was deceiving her. It was intimate - he couldn't quite bring himself to mean the word friendly, not with so much misunderstanding and so many mysterious unsaid things. Gwen was somehow resigned, her usual kind fire was chilled as close to cold as such a warm person could get, and he was acutely aware of the sharp needles she was pinning the dress with. He was nervous. This gift obviously meant something to her that was not clear to him yet, something upset her, and he dreaded to hear of it.

The adjustments over with, she surveyed him again, cocking her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. Considering her creation. Then she turned to the cherries on the table, picking one from the bowl. She bit it in half as she turned back to him, and smeared his lips with the remaining half, turning the fruit to maquillage. He felt an over eager drop of juice trickle down his chin. She grimaced only slightly, and wiped at it gently with a finger wet with spittle. Her skin was soft, and the close attention sent a shiver through Merlin, for a reason he couldn't define. He remembered abruptly that she had loved him once, and he had made a joke of it, played the fool and pretended to be clueless. It was better that way than to overtly let her down, and it had not taken her very long to move on - twice, as a matter of fact. She ate the rest of the cherry, and smiled a melancholic smile. He had never known her so unreadable. At present, he truly _was_ clueless.

She mussed his hair. He finally found the strength to speak, not wanting to suffer this foreboding confusion any longer, nor the silence that had turned suffocating somewhere along the way.

"What is this, Gwen?" he asked, serious, looking at her imploringly.

She let out a breath of laughter and looked away briefly. She didn't proceed to explain, but at least she was ready to speak, and eventually he might be able to glean some meaning from her words.

"If your hair were longer," she ran her hand through it again, "If I adjusted the waist of your dress a little, to give the illusion of a broader hip," she touched one of the pins she had fastened near his right hip bone, "If I had some of Morgana's proper paints to apply to your face," she traced the path the cherry juice had taken earlier, and Merlin felt something ugly twist in his gut. Her hand stayed on his face.

"Just a few small tricks, and you could very nearly be mistaken for a woman."

She ceased her monologue, as if waiting for a comment from him, but he had no reply. He couldn't even guess what she expected him to say.

"You will never be a woman, Merlin," she asserted when it was clear she would get no reply.

"I know _that_," Merlin said, his tone a mime of the jovial. She let out another puff of laughter in recognition of the joke, though neither of them were particularly amused. She was too full of intent, he was simply too terrified, too lost as to what had happened to his sweet, lovely Guinevere.

"That's the only thing that's standing in your way, you know. If only you were a woman, there is no question, Arthur would love you without restraint. That you're a servant wouldn't matter; I am one, too, and yet he has chosen to love me." her voice faded on her last words, and she repeated them, sounding as if she was trying above all else to convince herself, "He loves me."

His heart sank. Was she doing this for the sole purpose of breaking his heart? It wasn't as if he didn't know very well that he could never have Arthur. It wasn't as if he wasn't trying his best not to let it tear him apart that he still _wanted_ Arthur, no matter how fruitless his longings were. It certainly didn't help having someone else speaking his secret sorrow to him. He hadn't known that Gwen _knew_ about it, but then again, she believed that he liked wearing women's clothing. That he should also harbour feelings for men was not an uncommon conclusion to jump to, and if she had been been seeking signs that he loved Arthur, well, they were probably easy to spot once she knew to look for them. How ironic that she should be so correct based on such a false premise. Was the dress a gift of condolence, then? A pledge of sympathy? That wouldn't be unlike her, but that was also the reason he felt it could not be the whole story. It wouldn't be unlike her, but everything about this presentation was unlike her, and the uncertainty in her voice when she said Arthur loved her - it wasn't mere sympathy. She feared that they were in the same boat.

She sighed, a tired sound almost like a sob, and leaned her forehead heavily on his shoulder. He lifted a hand to pat her head soothingly, and ran it through her long curls.

"He does love you," he reassured her, pulling her into a half-hug, "And he will wait for you. Trust me. You will have him, he'll be yours with time."

She looked up then, but didn't move away. She was so close that she had to incline her neck to look him in the eyes, and there was no room to hide any feelings or intention in words. Surely she must see his sincerity, as well as his pain. He couldn't help it; it hurt to know that Arthur belonged to Gwen and not to him, even though he would be the first to insist that she deserved him.

"Sometimes I wish Lancelot had never left," she said unexpectedly as she broke eye contact, "I wish he was more than a half-faded dream, a real man that I could be in love with, like I was. All things considered, loving him hurt less than loving Arthur."

Merlin furrowed his brow.

"You have his love, and his promise - what more do you want?"

She laughed.

"I will have him," she mumbled, "I have his promise. Yes, I know, and he loves me." she paused, and smiled that melancholic smile again, stroking his cheek slowly. She refused to look him in the eye now.

"But not as much as he loves you."

Merlin was sure he'd heard her correctly, but the words still took a while to make sense to him.

"I will have him," she repeated, "But he'll never be _mine_." she sighed, "He was always yours, Merlin."

His first instinct was to disbelieve her. There was no way his feelings for Arthur could be reciprocated; the idea was mad. He wondered how she could know that, what made her suspect. Had she seen anything? Had Arthur _said_ anything? He wanted to shower her with questions, but now was not the time. She was heartbroken. And so, come to think of it, was he. The first rush of hope that bloomed in his chest upon hearing Arthur might return his love was crushed as he realised that it made no difference. Nothing could happen, even he knew that. If Gwen was right, the only thing it meant was that Arthur was suffering with this, too. That was not exactly a cheerful thought. He tightened his grip on Gwen.

"It's a ridiculous situation," she fretted, "A hopeless mess. He is yours, but you can't have him, he will wait for me, but he'll never be mine. I love him and I want to hate you, I want to resent you for the part of him that I'll never have, but I can't."

Of course she couldn't. This was Gwen, who could never truly hate anyone. She was both too kind and too reasonable for that. She was shaking with suppressed sobs now, and he ran his hand up and down his back to soothe her, to tell her it was alright. He didn't blame her for crying; his own face was wet with tears though he wasn't sure when exactly that had happened.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"You're the only friend I've got left," said Gwen, barely more than a whisper.

It dawned on him belatedly that she realised how Morgana had changed. She must feel her betrayal, even though she was unable to understand it. How it must hurt, being broken like this when the one friend she would have turned to was inexplicably turning into an enemy. Who did she have? Arthur himself, who she could not go to, her brother, from whom she had been separated so long that they couldn't possibly be close, and Merlin. He was the cause of her woes, and she'd earned the right to loathe him, yet he was the one she was clinging to now. It was strange how few close friends she had, sweet Gwen who deserved to be loved by everyone.

He squeezed her tight for a moment, then let go. She tried to smile at him, but gave up, and instead pressed a small kiss to his lips. She tasted of cherries and salty tears, and her body was soft against him. He wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to lie with her, not out of love, or even lust - purely for comfort. The notion was strange and foreign to him, dismissed immediately when she ruffled his hair again, shaking him from his thoughts. Her next attempt at a smile was more successful as she stepped away from him and corrected a pin that had loosened during their embrace.

"I'll have the dress back now, please. The adjustments should be ready in a few days time. Maybe a week if something comes up."

So she would still persist in this ridiculous gift.

"Gwen, I don't - "

"Please," she interrupted thinly, returning for a brief moment to the wounded candour of their previous conversation. "Please just let me do this for you."

He stared at her for a long moment, considering whether he should explain her misunderstanding. He concluded it didn't really matter.

"Alright," he whispered.

He changed from the luxurious dress back into his own worn tunic and found himself at the door, thinking he should say something. He had no idea what, so he settled for a subdued "Goodnight."


End file.
